by Sarah Chorn
“That way,” the outlaw said, pointing northwest, away from the train. Away from damn near everything, from what Arlen could see. “You stay here, take care of the train,” Chris shouted at the outlaws he traveled with. A few of them nodded, seemed to settle in, content to wait. Unperturbed, and willing to leave Arlen and Christopher alone together, to travel to…wherever.
“My father—"
“You said that man won’t offer you a ransom, and I’m not after one anyway. You think all the gold in the world will help me out here? We’ve got enough gold and enough company interest. We don’t need more. Get going. We’ve got a long way to walk and little time to do it in.
“You can’t just expect me to follow you!”
“I can and I fucking do,” Christopher hissed, eyes full of fire. “The road I walk on is paved with bones. I’ve got no problem adding a few more to my tally. Now, get moving.”
The cold edge of a knife pressed into Arlen’s back, and what else could he do? He could scream for help. He could try to run. But there’d been a gunfight and no one had come to help. There had been every opportunity for people to intervene, and no one had. Now there was a weapon at his back. A pistol wouldn’t have hurt him, but a blade would cut true.
So, he found himself walking down a gently sloping hill, and into the waiting forest.
Neither of them spoke. The man was steady behind him, his knife unwavering, his pace relentless. Arlen churned up more earth than he knew he could in a day. By the time night rolled around, his muscles ached, his body shook, and his feet were blistered.
“Stop,” his captor said. “We’ll put up here for the night.”
“I’m doing no such thing,” Arlen said. It was stupid. He was dead on his feet and they both knew it, but he had to at least put up the pretense for a fight. “Not until you take me to a transfer office and let me contact my father.”
“Bullshit,” Christopher Hobson replied.
“My father—"
“He ain’t your fucking father, kid, and I sure as hell am not going to turn my course for that bloated windbag. If he wants you, he can damn well come out here and get you.” Chris turned and fixed Arlen with his violet stare. “But he won’t, will he? He won’t pay a ransom, and he won’t come get you. Not him. Not the esteemed Matthew Esco. So, sit down and rest a spell while I light a fire and rustle up some dinner.”
He ain’t your fucking father. How many years had Arlen been quietly, secretly nursing that very thought? How much of his life had he spent wondering what kind of a horrible son he was for doubting his relation to Matthew Esco? It wasn’t just the shine, but so many other things as well. Matthew Esco was old enough to be his grandfather, for one, and he never mentioned having a wife. As far as Arlen knew, he’d never entertained lovers, either.
How could this man, this outlaw know his parentage, and know it well enough to speak this truth forcefully? As though the information was part of him, as real as his heartbeat.
It took the wind out of Arlen’s sails. He had to know more.
He watched Chris light a fire.
He could leave, Arlen realized. While Christopher was off doing whatever it was a man did when he was rustling up dinner, he could leave. There was no way one man could watch him, and do what he needed to do. At some point, Chris would have to turn around to take a piss, if nothing else. And that was when Arlen would go.
He had to be patient. He had to leave a trail for someone to follow, and wait for the right moment to run.
Chris eyed him and nodded once. “Before you think to run off, keep this in mind: I know this land. Trying to escape will be near as useful as barking at a knot. Sit down. Rest your feet. I’ll be back.”
He decided there was some wisdom in that statement. He sat back and pulled his shoes off, his socks following soon after, and set about inspecting his blisters in the golden glow of the fire’s light. Not a moment after he’d done that, Chris reappeared with a rabbit in one hand and a bunch of firewood in the other. He grunted when he noticed Arlen was still there, and then knelt in the dirt beside the fire, bending his head to his task. “You didn’t ask me what I meant,” Christopher said, his head still bent, avoiding Arlen’s gaze.
“About what?” Arlen asked. He was too tired to be anxious. Too tired to be upset.
“What I said. He ain’t your father.”
“Seems pretty straightforward to me,” Arlen replied. “Though, in truth, I have no reason to believe a word you say. You robbed a train, shot my bodyguard, and now you are telling me this and you just expect me to eat it up along with that rabbit.”
“You knew,” Christopher said, sitting back on his haunches. His eyes were piercing. His violet hair caught the fading light like crystals, filling the air with small, shimmering rainbows.
He didn’t want to be having this conversation, but there was no avoiding it, and in truth, he wanted to know what Chris knew. “I didn’t know, but I suspected.” Arlen grabbed the water skin Christopher handed him, took a swig from it and swallowed hard. He could feel the shine oil coat his mouth, undoubtedly to keep the water cool, but it just made it taste greasy. “Where are we going?” He asked, handing the water skin back.
Chris was staring at him. He hated being so… seen.
“To where this all began. Seems right that the company finally knows what is really going on out here, how and why it all started.”
“So, you’re taking me, the son of the company founder and owner, out to… somewhere… so I can understand.”
Chris roughly skewered the rabbit, setting it over the fire to cook. “He ain’t your fucking father, Arlen.”
Arlen didn’t answer. Something was hanging in the air between them, a knowing that was only hinted at. It would become real once it was given words and he wasn’t sure he was ready for that. Wasn’t sure he was ready for this next revelation, for his world to be upended all over again.
He was standing in that liminal space, hovering in the between. Between day and night. Between knowing and not knowing. Between the past and the future. All he needed was to take one step, and he would know. He would know, and it would drive a knife through him.
“A body only knows the truth its blood offers up, Arlen,” Christopher said, his voice whiskey-soft and dark as gloaming. “Can’t hide from it. No use trying.”
And that was the problem, wasn’t it? There was no hiding from any of this.
The moon pulled her blanket of stars across the sky. An owl called somewhere overhead. It was oddly peaceful. So why did he feel like he was holding a double-edged sword with no hilt? Why did he feel like he was being cut with each breath?
Arlen sucked in a breath, steeled his nerves, and said, “Tell me, Christopher Hobson. Who is my father?”
“Did you know I had three kids?” Christopher finally asked, turning his attention back to the rabbit and the fire. His voice was soft. So soft, and still sharp enough to wound. “Most people know about my daughter, my Cassandra. A few know about the babe that died and took my wife along with her. Nobody knows about my oldest child.” He paused, sat back on his heels and met Arlen’s eyes.
“Keep going,” Arlen whispered.
“No one knows about my oldest child. My… son. In truth, I didn’t either. Matthew Esco was my wife Lila’s father. He rode out here and took my first child back east with him, just to give the babe a proper education and better access to doctors and the like, was what he claimed.”
“And you believed him?”
“Why wouldn’t we, Arlen? He was Lila’s father. It never crossed our minds he would lie to her. I had my reservations. There are things about Matthew Esco that aren’t right, but Lila convinced me that he would never, ever do aught but good for his own flesh and blood.” Silence. Then, “He told us two months later that the babe caught the mosquito flu and died. We believed him. Why would we ever question something so horrible? Lila and I buried almost all of the small clothes and knickknacks we had. We had a small funeral, lit the Fate
fire. We put the memory of that baby in the ground.”
The world narrowed. Arlen heard the roar of the ocean in his ears and the bellows of his lungs. Loud enough to block out all sound.
Something marrow-deep told him that this story was true. That this wasn’t just a tale being told around a fire, it was his tale.
“Don’t need to ask me any questions about it now,” Christopher said, his voice soft. “Figure we both have some adjusting to do.”
“But you will answer my questions when I ask them?” Arlen pressed. Was that his voice? That soft, quivering thing, a fledgling bird taking its first flight, falling, falling until it hit the ground.
“Every one of them,” Christopher said. “I am not a cruel man, Arlen. Do not mistake that to mean I am kind. I will give you what I have.”
“I don’t trust you,” Arlen whispered. “I have no reason to trust you.”
“Suppose that’s true,” Chris replied, his voice wooden and low. “Suppose that’s the fucking truth, but maybe you want answers to who you are, and maybe I’ve got those carved into my bones. Maybe I can throw my bits of truth onto the table, so to speak, and we can sit down and gnaw on them a bit. Maybe seeing what I’m taking you to see will answer everything you’ve ever wanted to know. You’ve given that man your twenty years—"
“I’m twenty-one,” Arlen whispered.
“You’re twenty. I know when you were born. The point is, you gave Matthew Esco your twenty years, so you can afford to give me a few days, right?”
There was pleading in his voice. That’s what undid Arlen, that pleading, this strong rogue brought low by his need to connect
They spoke then, with the language of the soul, staring at each other across that clearing, violet eyes meeting Arlen’s own darker gaze, and he knew. No matter what happened after this. No matter how this changed things. He could not walk away from what this man was offering.
Answers. A lifetime of answers.
There was no making up for the time lost. Father and son, both of them hovering on the edge of that word, toes hanging over the lip of that particular cliff. The knowledge lay between them, silent and unexplored, and for now, it was enough.
“Okay,” Arlen said. “I’ll go with you.”
“I’m sorry I had to get you the way I did. Didn’t ever think Matthew would send his heir out here. Didn’t ever think I’d get the chance, and with me being on the wrong side of the law…” Christopher’s voice trailed off. He ran a hand through his hair and turned the spit the rabbit was on.
“Elroy,” Arlen said.
“He’ll be fine. They’ll dump Elroy off in Grove and let them deal with the worst of the shine addiction and heal his wound. He’ll be right as rain when you see him next, mark my words.”
Uncomfortable silence spread between them, thick with tension. What was he supposed to say? Neither of them seemed to know. Finally, Chris pulled the rabbit off its spit and tore a leg off, handed it to him. “Eat up,” the man said. “We’ve got a ways to go tomorrow.”
Arlen chewed on the rabbit and moaned when its shine-free flavor filled his mouth. Fate, he was famished. “You said you’ve got a daughter.”
Chris’s lips curled into a smile. “Right. Cassandra. She’s eighteen now, living with my sister on a homestead outside of Grove. Don’t see her as often as I’d like. I’m afraid life hasn’t been easy on her.”
It had always been him, alone against the world. Without friends, without family save for his distant, unyielding father.
It was a hell of a thing to realize he wasn’t alone. That knowledge sank in, all the way to his bones, all the way into his soul. An ocean surged inside of him.
And that was the thing, wasn’t it? Love wasn’t always soft. Sometimes it devoured. Sometimes it felt like teeth. And oh, he loved right now. He loved so hard it hurt.
He didn’t realize he was crying until the big outlaw pulled him close, wrapping his arms around Arlen’s quaking shoulders. He was breaking apart. Fracturing. Becoming like unto dust, and here he was, being held together while he tore himself apart.
He had a story now. Family. History. People.
He had people.
“It’s okay,” Chris crooned into his crown. “It’s okay. Everything runs to the sea eventually.”
He was so lost in himself, he barely felt Chris’s tears falling on him like rain. Didn’t realize that this moment, this bittersweet, fragile symphony was being etched indelibly into his heart. Some part of him would always be in this clearing, under that brilliant moon and all of her stars, hugging his father for the first time.
They clung to each other, rabbit forgotten, while night crept in around them. When they’d both caught themselves, their hearts crooning the song of family and familiar, they pulled apart. Chris stood and wiped his eyes, his shoulder stiff.
“Cass,” he said, his voice cracking. “My daughter. Yeah, she’s a good kid.” He coughed, and when he looked up, his eyes were dry and his face drawn. “I’d like you to meet her, when you’re ready, of course.”
“I think,” Arlen licked his lips, paused, poked at what he felt and finished with, “I think I’d like that.”
“She’s like you, can’t affect shine. Makes her a bit fearful, more comfortable alone than with people. Imagine what would happen if Matthew realized people existed who could pass through the fucking Boundary without his tonic.”
He didn’t have to imagine. He knew what happened to them, all those half-breed babies, dead, their bodies were thrown in unmarked, anonymous graves, the secrets of their nature hidden from everyone in Shine Territory. All those uncomfortable truths buried deep and forgotten. Cassandra and Arlen, and others like them, threatened the control his father had over this territory. They threatened everything.
Knowing that, why did his father send him into Shine Territory? Why risk it?
Something about that puzzle was nagging at him. Something made him wary. His father was nothing if not a master planner. He would not have sent Arlen into the Territory unless he knew Arlen’s nature, and expected something of him.
This wasn’t about a factory. This had never been about a factory.
It hit him like a train. Like a thunderstorm. “He expected you to get me,” he said. “He expected me to draw you out. ”
“Pretty fucking sure you have the truth of it,” Chris said.
“Then, the last thing we should be is together,” Arlen stood, grabbed his shoes.
“Sit down, boy,” Chris said. “I’m not going anywhere. I’ve been out here in the wild for most of my life, and I’ve survived. Matthew Esco isn’t going to find me unless I want him to.”
“There are only so many places you can run,” Arlen said. “Only so long you can stay hidden. What happens after he turns over the last rock? If you let me walk away, then all this is over, and you get another day, and another, and another.”
“Arlen,” Christopher whispered. Just that. Just his name, drawing out all the letters of it, savoring it like he would a fine wine. The night spun around them, and still, they stood there, staring at each other across a gulf as wide as a planet.
“Ianthe,” Cassandra says. “Are you well?”
I am sitting in the sunlight, in a comfortable rocking chair right outside the sanatorium. I am drifting from all the shine I drink. I can feel it inside of me, easing the pain, calming my symptoms.
This will be my last day in this chair.
“I am comfortable,” I say. Well, as comfortable as I can be, considering.
“I am going to the market to buy some things for the sanatorium, and some apples for pies. I have dinner with my family tonight, if you don’t mind. I’d like to take a pie with me.”
“Please,” I say to her, and manage a smile. Or, I think it is a smile. “You shouldn’t be here, hanging on my every breath. Do what you must.”
I am memorizing this moment. The way the sun catches in her hair. The healthy pink in her cheeks. I am locking her in the folds of my mi
nd, so I might carry a piece of her with me for always.
“I love you,” I say. I cannot utter those words enough. I want her to hear them so often, they take up residence in her soul. I want her to arm herself with them. She smiles.
I watch as she disappears into the town. Watch, as life swallows her up.
I woke during a blizzard, the wind howling like a wolf, the cabin fairly shaking with the force of it. Windows rattled in their panes, and the door itself jolted back and forth in its frame. The house was warm, despite the chill and wind assaulting it. It felt like I was on a ship lost at sea. Shine was burning in the fireplace, and it kept the inside toasty, driving away any possible chill.
For a long while, I lay with my eyes closed, listening to the wind, and the whispers nearby, familiar and welcome.
It took a while to come back to myself. My body felt strange, and my head heavy. I was sick to my stomach and weak. My temples were throbbing, and I felt the wound like it had just happened.
I must have made some sound, for the next thing I knew, big hands were grasping mine. “Little flower?” A pause. A brush of lips and the prickle of a beard. “Tell me you’re coming back. Tell me I didn’t imagine that.”
“Da?” I croaked. The word stuck, but it was loud enough for him to hear. It seemed impossible that he was here. I was certain I was dreaming of him.
I opened my eyes and studied my father. He was sitting beside the pallet I was resting on, his elbows propped on his knees, his face pinched with worry, eyes haunted. His body, usually so strong and upright, was hunched in on itself, bowing under the weight of his helplessness. He could move mountains and pull the moon from the sky. He could howl until the sun sank, never to rise again, but he could not save his daughter.